Making Money

were slightly too pudgy for them were ostensibly knobbly poison rings, but surely anyone really in the business wouldn’t have so many, would they? Real killers didn’t bother to advertise. And why was the elegant black glove on the other hand? That was an Assassins’ Guild affectation. Yep, guild-school trained, then. Lots of upper-class kids went there for the education but didn’t do the Black Syllabus. He probably had a note from his mother saying he was excused from stabbing.
    Mr. Fusspot was trembling with fear or, perhaps, rage. In Moist’s arms he was growling like a leopard.
    “Ah, my stepmother’s little dog,” said Cosmo, as the coach began to move. “How sweet. I do not waste words. I will give you ten thousand dollars for him, Mr. Lipwig.”
    He held out a piece of paper in the ungloved hand.
    “My note of hand for the money. Anyone in this city will accept it.”
    The voice of Cosmo was a kind of modulated sigh, as if talking was somehow painful.
    Moist read:
    Please pay the sum of Ten Thousand Dollars to Moi? von Lipwig
    And it was signed across a one-penny stamp by Cosmo Lavish, with many a flourish.
    Signed across a stamp…where had that come from? But you saw it more and more in the city, and if you asked anyone why, they said, “’Cos it makes it legal, see?” And it was cheaper than lawyers, and so it worked.
    And here it was, ten thousand dollars pointing directly at him.
    How dare he try to bribe me, thought Moist. In fact, that was his second thought, that of the soon-to-be wearer of a goldish chain. His first thought, courtesy of the old Moist, was: How dare he try to bribe me so small.
    “No,” he said. “Anyway, I’ll get more than that for looking after him for a few months!”
    “Ah yes, but my offer is less…risky.”
    “You think?”
    Cosmo smiled. “Come now, Mr. Lipwig. We’re men of the world—”
    “—you and I, yes?” Moist finished. “That’s so predictable. Besides, you should have offered me more money first.”
    At this point something happened in the vicinity of Cosmo’s forehead. Both eyebrows began to twist like Mr. Fusspot’s when he was puzzled. They writhed for a moment, and then Cosmo saw Moist’s expression, whereupon he slapped his brow and his momentary glare indicated that instant death would reward any comment.
    He cleared his throat and said, “For what I can get free? We are making a very good case that my stepmother was insane when she made that will.”
    “She seemed sharp as a tack to me, sir,” said Moist.
    “With two loaded crossbows on her desk?”
    “Ah, I see your point. Yes, if she was really sane, she’d have hired a couple of trolls with big, big clubs.”
    Cosmo gave Moist a long, appraising look, or what he clearly thought was one, but Moist knew that tactic. It was supposed to make the lookee think they were being weighed up for a serious kicking, but it could just as easily mean “I’ll give him the ol’ hard eyeball while I’m wondering what to do next.” Cosmo might be a ruthless man, but he wasn’t a stupid one. A man in a gold suit gets noticed, and someone would remember whose coach he got into.
    “I fear that my stepmother has landed you into a lot of trouble,” said Cosmo.
    “I’ve been in trouble before,” said Moist.
    “Oh? When was that?” And this came sharp and sudden.
    Ah. The past. Not a good place to go. Moist tried to avoid it.
    “Very little is known about you, Mr. Lipwig,” Cosmo went on. “You were born in Überwald, and you became our postmaster general. In between…”
    “I’ve managed to survive,” said Moist.
    “An enviable achievement indeed,” said Cosmo. He tapped on the side of the coach and it began to slow. “I trust it will continue. In the meantime, let me at least give you this…”
    He tore the bill in half, and dropped the half that very emphatically did not carry his seal or signature onto Moist’s lap.
    “What is this for?” said Moist, picking it up while trying to restrain the frantic Mr. Fusspot with the other hand.
    “Oh, just a declaration of good faith,” said Cosmo, as the coach stopped. “One day you might feel inclined to ask me for the other half. But understand me, Mr. Lipwig, I don’t usually take the trouble to do things the hard way.”
    “Don’t bother to do so on my account, please,” said Moist, wrenching the door open. Sator Square was outside, full of carts and people and embarrassingly potential witnesses.
    For a moment,